


you just can't get the staff

by oonaseckar



Series: Topher's Interns [1]
Category: Dollhouse, Smallville
Genre: Amorality, Gen, Interns & Internships, M/M, Mad Scientists, Trainee, Unethical Experimentation, Unethical Medicine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 01:34:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21046121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonaseckar/pseuds/oonaseckar
Summary: Season 1 swerve.  Topher gets a new intern.  Torturing Clark a little, but it's Topher who suffers most.





	you just can't get the staff

**'That's that, capitalism in action,**

**And that's that, making cash off your fat ass and...'**

**'Pig Dog', Warsaw Pack**

A new intern promises horrors and charms, has all kinds of potential for Topher. Good enough to be useful? Ideal just-right bowl of porridge, but don't forget to squash their self-esteem enough so they don't get any ideas. Good enough to be competition? Hang out, suck their brains dry, befriend 'em, fuck 'em (if agreeable), move them on. Or put strychnine in their coffee.

And then there's _this_ guy.

There are tests, to qualify as a Rossum technical aide. There is a _minimum_ _standard_.

Clark Kent does not meet that minimum standard. Topher has already established that he will need drilling in basic techniques. Forget theory, he's going to need guiding by the hand to read a data display, hook up an oscilloscope or correctly position a wedge in the holders to minimise risk of data loss. For a minute Topher's tempted to redirect him to the cleaning cupboard, and equip him with a bucket and mop.

But no. He has his instructions. And Rossum instructions are not for ignoring. Evading, re-interpreting, creatively misapprehending, perhaps. But not _ignoring_.

This guy is his new recruit, acolyte, hazing victim. There must be a _reason_.

So Topher does the chin-tucking thing, scrutinizes him carefully. Tries to _see_. Farmboy smiles back amiably, seemingly quite happy to wait quietly while being examined, sky-blue eyes drifting away. Mind probably vacant.

Topher makes his mind up. This is the raw material he's stuck with, for as long as Ivy's on secondment in Rio. Clark Kent will be his project. He will make of him the super, the uber, the _ur_-Tech. However long it takes. By any means necessary, including the last resort.

That's part of why Clark doesn't get the introductory chat before his first procedure, a full virgin wipe. The rah-rah speech, the gee-up, the rationalization and justification. Better to throw him in with the sharks, break him in order to re-make him.

There's only the tiniest touch of sadism to it.

As it turns out, _good_ _call_, at least as far as the broken things go. It's not the worst fuck-up that chair's ever seen, but it gets uncomfortably close. The architecture hasn't sealed off and removed everything clean, her original self starts to bleed through mid-procedure when she should be fugued, they have to build on the wing. The architecture is, not corrupted, no. Someone's been introducing adaptations, but without Topher's smooth touch. There's a spy in the house of Rossum, but since when is that news? He's too busy fire-fighting to care. Just one more thing to chew over with Boyd when he gets back.

They upload, undo the mods, re-wipe her and re-apply. It's a fucking nightmare, they are on a battlefield, he has never sweated so much or shouted till he's lost his voice. He kind of fucking loves it.

They fix it, fix her, they are the super fucking heroes of the hour and the day. It is _magnificent_. By the end he clutches on to Clark, his new best bud, gripping his shoulder and grinning like a loon. The new handler is terrified, whimpering at the back. Topher has never felt quite the alpha male so much as when he shoves him forward, punches gently, continuously, encouragingly in the small of his back, till he manages to stutter out the prompts and responses. The house's new doll kicks into her demi-life like a dream.

He drags Kent out to a bar, after clean-up, prior to the post-mortem. Time enough to worry when... Other people get paid to worry. He fixes shit _up_. Kent has a _lite beer. _But Topher can make allowances. This is his new best bud, and the euphoria hasn't worn off yet.

He finds himself pounding the table, gentle, manic, at a point where he realises the conversation has been dead for some time. It's just a percussive rhythm to accompany his thoughts, but he's not alone, and his mom did make _some_ effort to socialise him appropriately in early childhood. Groping for the expected verbal move, the cue, he offers, 'You did good, you know, back there. Well, when I say good, I mean you take direction surprisingly well and you didn't make anything worse, so I'd have to say my first evaluation is quite possibly going to...' He pauses. He isn't that sure where he was going, and it almost certainly wasn't going to be anywhere tactful. 'Anyway. Your impressions? How's the job going for you so far?'

He tries for _genuine_, even _friendly_. He's a lot better at synthesizing these things than ten, even five years back.

'Well, it was a little crazy back there,' Kent says, with an easy, relaxed smile. 'But I'm pretty sure I can adapt to the pace. And it helps to know we're doing good work.'

Topher's still beating out a rhythm. It takes a moment for it to stutter. For a minute he doesn't know exactly what's arrested him. 'Good work?' He can feel the vacancy on his face, shuts his mouth.

Kent gestures, non-specifically, with his untouched stein of low-alcohol sin. 'Helping people. It's important to help people.'

Topher ponders this. He ponders some more. Finally, he can't resist. 'Run it past me, just the once. Who are we _helping_?'

There's the slightest crease between Kent's smoothly tattooed brows. 'The clients? You know, they get to achieve their dreams, overcome their obstacles. Get past psychological blocks, resolve their underlying frustrations...'

This spiel is familiar. From dim memory, Topher feels there may be word-for-word chunks from the multi-purpose general Rossum employee induction manual.

He hasn't met a cleaning lady who's swallowed it like _this_, yet.

He really doesn't want to take the obvious next steps. _Can't we just leave it here_, he demands, of some invisible other self. _Can I just not open my mouth?_

But he's teetered at too deep an angle on the tip of the stair, and now he has to fall. It's physics, it's gravity, it's mostly disbelief. 'And what about the dolls?'

Kent shifts on plastic upholstery, looking uncomfortable with the unofficial terminology. 'Actives? ...They're contracted, right? They, uh, understand the terms at the beginning, and it's a fixed period, and they leave with appropriate remuneration and their own psyches re-installed.' He looks comfier, now. Offical Rossum jargon rolls around his mouth, gives those red ladylips something to do.

Topher sits back in his seat, glad to be drunk. That little bit of missing edge is a _very good thing_, he decides. 'You're an interesting dude, Kent,' he advises, swinging his glass forward in a lazy approximation of a toast, faintly hostile. 'At least, more interesting than I thought this morning. I may learn _scads_ about myself, working with you. One day, and already I'm having moral qualms, about the moral qualms you're not having.'

Kent looks slightly offended, but Topher would bet money it's just at the tone. He isn't going to understand what he should be offended about. Better give him something, then. He leans in close.

'I've decided, I'm going to adopt you. As my pet. My _cat_. From now on, you will be my feline companion. I'm feeling you'd do well as a feline. How'd you feel about that, Tibbles?'

Kent is properly offended now. His eyes seem to sizzle bluer, and his bow of a mouth prisses up. 'Do you know what you're talking about?'

Topher just wags a finger. 'Oh yeah. You're my cat all right. Don't worry, I'm an animal lover. Nothing but the best deluxe wet food, scenty litter, all the toys and catnip you could want. I'll buy you live mice to play with. Just purr for me every morning and all this could be yours.' He nods, makes his eyes sincere. It's a look he's tried and tested in the mirror these many years.

'I'm not going to take this seriously.' Kent folds his arms, resolute and adult.

'Maybe not, brother.' Topher nods some more. 'But you will be purring for me, every morning, right on cue. I'm adding it to your job description.'

xxx

Topher calls Boyd later on. They need the Rossum secure line to discuss the breach, but really he just wants to touch base with his moral compass. _Unmoored_, that's how he's feeling.

Boyd is irritable, unsympathetic. 'So, he's more competent than you expected? How is that a _problem_, Topher?'

Topher shifts his shoulders, wriggles until he remembers Boyd isn't there to annoy with body language. 'He will be _more_ competent, when I've finished with him. He's just not holding up his end of the deal.'

'Which is?' He's being humoured, but that's okay. When is Boyd ever _not_ humouring him?

'You know. To make me uncomfortable. To hold me to a higher standard than I would otherwise attain. To express some friggin' _scruples_, at least once in a while. Even Ivy managed it for three months or so, and now she's acting head of the Brazil lab and moonlighting as a handler! Even _Ivy_!'

'Poor Topher,' Boyd says, but it's abstracted. He can tell the guy has more important things on his mind, and tries to let it go. But...

Topher broods. 'The trouble is, he's the ideal Rossum employee. And I always thought that was _me_. Which makes me... a rebel? It's unsettling. Maybe I could make him into a doll, instead? He'd be much happier as a doll...'

'No, Topher.'

'We could treat it as an experiment, see how far we can pare down the intervention and still achieve active state. I have a feeling the adjustments required in his case would be fantastically minimal...'

'_No_, Topher.' It is abrasive and final. 'It doesn't form part of his contract.' The line clicks, and Boyd is gone.

Topher subsides, overruled. The head of his primate troop has spoken, and pretty damn harshly too. He rushes to re-establish his position as favourite son, bangs a text out.

_'When is u coming home, man-friend? I miss youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!'_


End file.
